


Packmate

by nessbess



Series: Werewolves of Chicago [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fluff, M/M, werewolf!Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessbess/pseuds/nessbess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey comes to terms with what it means to be in Ian's pack and there is much wolfy cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packmate

With the revelation came the breaking of a dam.

Mickey didn't know much about werewolves beyond _The Wolfman_ Hollywood shit, but he definitely wasn't expecting all of the... Well. He had been expecting more violence and temper-tantrums and general kidnapping and murder of girls with big tits and skimpy fucking clothes. In reality, though, there really wasn't a better word than _snuggling_ to describe Ian's behaviour since he had told Mickey the truth. There had hardly been a moment when they were alone since returning to the Gallagher's house that Ian hadn't draped himself all over Mickey like some sort of retarded sweater, pinning him in place with two hundred pounds of ginger werewolf ass and somehow managing to be both in his lap and curled around his back and that position really shouldn't have been comfortable and how the fuck are you sleeping right now?

And then there was all of the nuzzling and the hugging and the constant _rubbing_ of Ian's chest against Mickey's, his back arched, and he really needed to stop that actually, because sweatpants hid fuck all. If Mickey was laying down, Ian was sprawled across his back, face digging into his armpit. Mickey knew for a fact that that wasn't an enjoyable experience - Ian had told him about the whole heightened senses spiel, and Mickey's armpit definitely weren't no fucking Bath  & Body Works. Not that he'd ever been in one of those stores. Or would enjoy the smell if he were. Mandy seemed to like them, though, and always ended up stealing those shitty cheap perfume things that she would then drown herself in in the hopes that she would stop smelling like Terry's fucking meth lab and piss.

But Ian didn't seem to mind his dirty boy smell. Quite the opposite, actually. He always seemed to pop up outta nowhere with his freaky werewolf-powered ninja shit, burrowing his face into Mickey's neck or hair and breathing deeply. Mickey knew that had to be disgusting. He hadn't showered for at least a week and had no fucking clue when the last time his shirt had been clean was. It was fucking weird.

But not as weird as the biting. Or - well. Not biting, exactly. He never broke the skin, always worried that he'd accidentally turn Mickey into a werewolf or some shit if he did. He just gummed Mickey to death instead, coating Mickey in his slobber.

"The fuck are you doing?" Mickey shoved Ian away, swiping the spit off of his jaw with the back of his wrist. "I ain't your goddamned chew toy, Gallagher, Jesus."

Ian had the grace to look abashed. "I just... you smell like..." he floundered for the right word, "...pack. You and Mandy and Lip and Fiona and Debs and Carl and Liam. You smell like pack."

Mickey paused, processing that for a moment. "Do you lick all over them, too?" he demanded, eyebrows flying towards his hairline. He knew his sister had always had a bit of a thing for Ian, but he couldn't imagine her letting him drool all over her like that. And it was just fucking weird thinking about him doing that to his family.

"No! I... No." Ian turned a brilliant shade of crimson. "You're different. You smell like... mine. Like mate," he clarified, refusing to meet Mickey's gaze.

Mickey stared at him in silence as Ian screwed up his eyes tightly, as if bracing for a blow. He wondered if Ian were listening to his heartbeat - if he could hear the panic and indecision roaring between Mickey's ears. He already had a wife. And a screaming ball of shit and spit that guzzled his fucking money, besides. But to be Ian's _mate_? If that wasn't the most fucked up shit he'd ever heard... But he already knew that they were together. And Ian had to have heard him say so at Dorothy's stupid cocktail party thing. He heard everything nowadays. Would being his stupid werewolf-ass mate or whatever really be that different?

To be honest, Mickey kind of liked the idea of belonging to Ian - much more than he fancied the idea of belonging to the Russian and her squalling little shitbag. If he belonged to Ian, maybe Ian wouldn't leave him behind or go get AIDS from fucking too many sex-starved pedophile queens. Maybe being Ian's wasn't such a bad thing. And if he were Ian's, didn't that mean that Ian was his?

"You are the faggiest fucking werewolf I have ever seen," Mickey said gruffly. He snorted. "Whatever, man. Just take it easy with the dribbling all over me, yeah?"

Ian's gaze snapped up to meet his, eyes shining with such hope that Mickey had to look away and chew at his lip to keep from grinning back at the blinding smile that stretched across Ian's face.


End file.
